our fingers are intertwined
by dimitrisgirl18
Summary: Your heartstrings are a melody that she's always known. It's a broken melody, true, but you've never had a choice in who gets to put it back together, let alone in who gets to play it. As the fates would have it, it's always been her. / Roxanne, Molly, and painting because it keeps you sane. / For Cassie.


_our fingers are intertwined_

* * *

"If you were to press your heart close up against somebody else's heart eventually your hearts will start beating at the same time." - Andrea Gibson

* * *

Your heartstrings are a melody that she's always known.

It's a broken melody, true, but you've never had a choice in who gets to put it back together, let alone in who gets to play it. As the fates would have it, it's always been her. You know it. You know that it used to keep you up at night because Roxy, dear, you're not supposed to love girls. You're not supposed to love your cousin.

But the way that Molly sews together your heartstrings makes you think that this might be okay, after all.

Even now, you're scared. People know-not about Molly, but about you-and you're scared. But you put on your brave face and you stick with the people who still love you (Molly included, thank Merlin) and you live because that's what you're supposed to do.

Mum's a little old-fashioned, but Dad comes around when you bring Serena home and she's not just a friend and he sees how much she means to you. Even though your mum was "ill" for the dinner, you'd rather not have her there. It's just you, and Serena, and your dad.

Then why does it feel like someone's missing?

Every time you look over at her, you don't see her bright blonde hair and brown eyes that almost match yours. She loves you for your eyes; she says you're meant to be together because of them. She whispers you love poems about your eyes and that's why you're falling for her.

But Roxy, you see brown hair and blue eyes and glasses that always fall down. When you remember this dinner, it will always be second best to pyjama days with your cousin and if your fling with Serena is a love poem then it can never compare to the novels that you and Molly have already written.

You kiss her goodbye and your dad wraps his arm around you and everything, for one moment, feels completely and utterly wrong. You're an actress, darling, and you can tell that you've stepped onto the wrong stage. The curtain's already risen and the only thing you can do is wait for it to be over and pretend like you know your lines. Improvise to the best of your abilities. Say the words that are meant for another, and take your bow when it's time to leave.

So you play it out. You say "I love you" when she says it first, you buy her flowers when it's expected and you tolerate her overabundance of affection in return. When she tells you one day in sixth year that she just doesn't think it's working out, you agree a little too quickly. Later, you see her with Rose in the hallways, giggling over some seventh year boys, and you realize that you were used.

Somewhere between your heartbreak and the end of your sixth year, you pick up two new habits.

The first (and the better one) is painting. Fred bought you a paintbrush and a set of paints for Christmas. He said that you looked sad, and he thought it would help you. You appreciated the gift, but Serena didn't like the smell of paint and the way it would stain your fingers for days, so you put them in a box and haven't opened them since.

It's a particularly rainy morning in April when Molly makes her way over from the Hufflepuff table to join you for breakfast. She's a pop of yellow among a sea of blue, and you welcome her distraction from an already gloomy day. She picks up a piece of toast and takes a bite, and the two of you sit in comfortable silence.

"You know," she says, flipping through the pages of her Charms book. "You should pick up painting again."

And because it's Molly, and she knows you so well, you find that painting is exactly what you need. Your bedside drawers are filled with boxes of paintings, and Molly fills the boxes under your bed with paints. Some days, when the others are outside or at Hogsmeade or watching Quidditch practice, you'll follow your father's instructions and take her to the Room of Requirement.

There, you'll paint for hours. She'll sit on the floor and mix paints for you in every color imaginable, and you wonder how she knows that you needed a certain shade of yellow or brown. When you ask her, she shrugs. "That's what cousins are for, right?"

The second habit is your secret. It's for your eyes only, dear. It's the reason you paint with red so often-and it's not because you want to be a Gryffindor. Most people can't tell the difference between red paint and red blood when it's a dash on your arm. You are so, so good at keeping it secret. No one knows. No one can guess, because you let no one close enough.

She is your weakness, though, and she always has been. When she's mixing you a red the shade of your hair so you can paint the two of you together, she notices your arms.

"Roxanne," she says. "What's on your arm?"

"Paint," you mutter, running your paintbrush along your robes on the canvas. They're almost perfect.

"No," she says. "It's not." You know that she knows. Maybe she's known for a while now. "Why, Roxy?"

The paintbrush falls to the floor, and you hunch over as the sobs rack your body. She holds you for what feels like forever, and you find yourself wishing it was under different circumstances.

This habit lands you in St. Mungo's for a month, where your paints are confiscated and only your mum and dad and Fred are allowed to visit. Grandma sends cookies and her best love. Molly writes you every day, but you're not allowed to write back.

By the start of seventh year, you've learned how to be more secretive. It only happens when you paint with red, and only every once in a while. You're addicted to feeling something that you can control.

You've been so alone for so long that it hurts. You've pushed Molly away; you love her but you can't hurt her like this. You can't offer her a love she can never have.

Your paintings are different now. You forget all about your painting of you and Molly, and instead you paint battlegrounds, wars, dark and desolate towns. You like forests, too. You pour paint onto canvases and that's how you survive.

It's April again before you know it, and all of the sudden your memories overwhelm you. Serena. Molly. Painting. Molly.

You paint on your skin and then use the shards of your memories to feel like you can control, at least, yourself, but before you know it you are spiraling out of control and she's standing over you, screaming "Roxanne! Someone, help!" You want to tell her that it's okay, please don't hurt, I love you, but you're slipping; you're going black.

And when you wake up, it's not Molly, but a doctor that's standing over you. A quill is flying back and forth across the page as the doctor reads out vitals. You blink. The doctor leaves.

It's the same as it was before, only they let you out in June to graduate. After you've crossed the Great Hall, it's back in your hospital bed. You don't get to talk to anyone outside of your immediate family. Your fingers are itching to paint, but of course, they don't let you.

In late July, you're staring at the ceiling while some mindless soap opera plays on the radio. After it's over, the announcer does the daily weather.

"Today is Wednesday, July 24th. The skies will be partly cloudy with a ten percent chance of rain. It's a great day for Quidditch as Puddlemere United takes on the new Irish team, and the Holyhead Harpies take on their bitter rivals..."

You bolt up in bed and look at the clock. It's noon. Only twelve hours before your first birthday alone.

At quarter to twelve that evening, there's a commotion in the hallway. You look away from the clock for a minute to see what's going on. The curtains in your room are open just enough that you can look out.

Molly is standing next to the big nurse's station in the middle of the floor, holding a covered easel and your big box of paints and brushes. There are two doctors and three or four nurses talking to her. They look angry, so you turn off the radio and try to listen in.

"...absolutely against protocol!" one nurse shouts. Your favorite doctor, Anna, shakes her head.

"I don't see why it's not allowed. Ms. Weasley hasn't been making progress lately; this could be just what she needs," Anna protests.

Molly looks triumphant. "See?"

"We cannot allow this, Ms. Weasley-" another nurse says, but Molly pushes her way past them and walks over to your door. She bumps it open with her hip, and as it swings open, the clock in the hallway chimes midnight.

You swear she's more beautiful than ever as she smiles brightly and says "Happy Birthday, Roxy!"

"Molly," you whisper.

"Guess what I brought?" She sets down the easel and pulls the sheet off of it with a flourish. It's your painting-the unfinished one, from sixth year. Molly is all finished; you're only missing your hair. It's the color she was mixing when you had to go to St. Mungo's for the first time. "I know you haven't painted in a while, but you loved this painting, and it made me sad to see it unfinished, and if you don't want to finish it I understand, but I think it would make you feel better, and..." she trails off. "I mixed you the color of your hair."

You put one hand on your IV pole and stand up. It rolls behind you as you walk over to her and the easel, making almost no noise. Suddenly, you throw your arms around her and squeeze. A laugh bubbles up from within you, and she's laughing too, and you're smiling for the first time in a year.

She offers you the box, and you rifle through it to find the perfect brush. She pulls out the fresh paint and sits on your bed while you put new strokes across the page. It is really the perfect color of your hair, and when you're done, you set the paintbrush down and sit next to her.

It's Molly and Roxanne; Roxanne and Molly. It's perfect. It's meant to be. After so long, you'd almost forgotten the painting, but seeing it again reminds you of how much you love her. In it, you're holding hands, walking down the path to the lake at Hogwarts. In the foreground of the picture, you can just see the beginning of the sand.

Molly sets it in front of your bed and pulls the covers back around you. She pauses, then gently climbs in next to you and lays her head on your shoulder.

"Thank you," you say, although there are no words to really describe how you're feeling. Completing your painted self makes you feel like a piece of the real you that was missing has been put perfectly back into place.

"I love you," she says.

It takes you a few moments to register what she says, but when you do, the grin that spreads across your face is unstoppable. "I love you too," you reply, and she holds your hand as the two of you stare at your painting.

"Listen, Roxy." Molly sighs. "I'm sorry that I didn't do this earlier. But look at your own painting. Look at us. Our fingers are intertwined, just like our hearts. You've captivated me for so long that...that I don't know what I'd do without you. I love you so, so much. And I want you to know that you'll never be alone, okay? I'm always here for you. I'll be here forever."

You look down at your fingers like she told you to. Yours are stained with a safe color of red and a little bit of yellow and blue. Hers are clean, but they form a perfect contrast to yours.

She plays a melody on your heartstrings, and you are forever hers.

"Be strong, my love," she says. She kisses your temple softly. "Goodnight. Sweet dreams. Happy birthday."

It's always been Molly, hasn't it? And it feels so right to have your fingers intertwined.

For once, everything is alright.

* * *

_A/N: For Cassie, because you are so, so brave. This is for you; for everything I couldn't say. Happy Birthday, darling. Here's to another year of trampling elephants and always being there._

_Also for the All Sorts of Love Competition: Cousincest._

_A review on your way out would be lovely :3_

_Allie_


End file.
